


An Experiment in Weight and Strength

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rough Sex, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friendly wager leads to a wrestling match at Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Slick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403495) by [beltainefaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie). 



In a matter of minutes the sitting room had become a stadium. All the most fragile odds and ends were pushed aside, along wth the furniture, leaving the rug in front of the hearth bared. Before shutting the sitting room door, Holmes promised Mrs. Hudson they would cause no damage to themselves or the flat, if she would be so kind as to just ignore any odd bumps and clatters for the next forty minutes or so. Their landlady repeated she would have no violence in her house.

“Merely a friendly wager, I assure you,” Holmes insisted. “On my honor, Mrs. Hudson, you haven’t any cause for alarm.”

“I promise not to throw him into the fire,” called Watson, busy removing his boots.

Holmes laughed at that and turned to add, “Not that I’ll give you the opportunity!”

Reluctantly, Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands and left them to themselves. There was no arguing with some people, her tenants especially. However, she very much wished they would stop attending exhibitions in tandem—they invariably returned locked in a heated debate, which could only be decided by some demonstration that almost always posed a threat to the house, its residents, or both. Last month, an exposition of electrical devices had inspired Mr. Holmes to cobble together a rudimentary incandescent lamp in an effort to prove to Dr. Watson the efficiency, practicality, and cost-effectiveness of such a device. All it succeeded in doing was burning the curtains up to the valence and letting loose an acrid, metallic stench that burned the nostrils and took days to dissipate. She’d been hopeful about today’s excursion; how much trouble could an art exhibit possibly inspire? Only too late did she learn the title of the thing: A History of Wrestling - Ancient to Modern. She put the kettle on and opened the door to the back garden to let in the early summer breeze, determined not to fuss if they wanted to bash about like schoolboys. At least it hadn’t been firearms…

 

Upstairs, both men were barefoot in their shirtsleeves. Collars removed, sleeves rolled to elbows, limbs pulled across the chest or behind the back in a series of stretches that were more for show than preparation. Watson gave the settee another shove towards the wall, while Holmes emptied some loose change from his trouser pocket. Finally, they stood at opposite ends of the mantle, more or less poised like fighters, trying very hard not to laugh.

“This is incredibly idiotic,” observed Watson, rolling his bad shoulder.

“Because it's a foregone conclusion that I’ll win,” agreed Holmes with a cheeky smile.

“No, because we’re grown men, in the first place—“

“Wrestling is a very serious art; _lots_ of grown men wrestle.” Though, admittedly, not with their lover on the hearthrug.

“And in the _second_ place,” Watson continued, planting himself squarely, “I’ve got nearly forty pounds on you _and_ you’re taller; it’ll be like toppling a sapling.”

Holmes shook his head and edged closer. “A slender tree may yet have deep roots. It isn’t so much about who has the weight and strength, as it is how they’re used.” The whole way home, he had defended his position almost exclusively in such Eastern axioms. This had solidified Watson’s desire to thrash him.

They circled each other for a moment, still fighting the urge to laugh. When they collided chest to chest, their arms grappled for dominance while they continued in a staggering loop, like very drunk dancers in a Viennese waltz. A leg hooked behind Watson’s knees and with a loud thud he was suddenly on his back, Holmes on one knee beside him.

“Like toppling a sapling.”

The struggle had dislodged a few locks of Holmes’s immaculate hair, giving him a rakish look that almost made the condescending tone forgivable. It also obscured his vision. He failed to see the arm come up before it wrapped about him and dragged him quickly downward.

They tussled on the floor, rolling over one another and squirming out of holds. As they moved, the contact grew both more sensual and more violent. Hands caressed along legs or arms before catching them in viselike grips. Elbows jutted into ribs and guts with more than friendly force. Hips rubbed against thighs and arses. An accidental, but firm blow landed on the back of Watson’s head. Each man surged at the other and rejoiced in his partner’s brawny retort. When Holmes leaned for a breathless kiss, Watson caught his lower lip in his mouth. A half-bite, half-suck that disarmed the detective completely. A hasty tumble and Watson had him. Supine, Holmes’s hands were trapped overhead under one of Watson’s forearms. The other arm lay across Holmes’s chest, the hips between his thighs, forehead resting on his forehead; the whole of Watson’s weight pressed down on him. Even if he could escape, Holmes wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Supremely satisfied with his victory, Watson eased up enough to look over his catch. It was an excellent view, one of Watson’s favorites: hands overhead, legs spread. A flush ran from high on Holmes’s cheekbones, down his neck and disappeared into his shirt. Watson’s eyes travelled further down, catching the outline of Holmes’s erection in his trousers, straining against stretched fabric and its own fullness. The sight of it was obscene and it made Watson’s cock swell with longing. Holmes noted his gaze. When their eyes met, he offered an embarrassed smile.

"Well, hullo," Watson started, still slightly out of breath. "Is this your usual response to close combat?"  
  
"More often than I care to admit." Holmes glanced down at himself with a nervous chuckle. "Though these trousers are particularly unforgiving."

“If I move a hand to help you with that, promise not to clock me in the head again?”

Holmes gave an eager nod. “I concede the match.”

Watson’s arm shifted off Holmes’s chest, though he didn’t release his hands just yet—there was something to be said for forcing Sherlock Holmes into passivity. With his free arm, Watson unbuttoned his trousers and guided Holmes’s erection through the flies. It throbbed in his hand, head swollen and dripping. Holmes let out a sigh that dissolved into a whimper. Watson always spoke of the beauty of his hands, but Holmes much preferred the doctor’s to his own; they had a broadness and a dexterity which made them indispensable. Barely two strokes in and he was in bliss.

“I told you I would win,” Watson teased, partially because he could, partially because he wanted to stave off Holmes’s orgasm as long as possible. Bickering was good for that.

“Would not!” Holmes shot him a look and managed a nearly convincing struggle against Watson’s hold, momentarily forgetting the hand on his prick. That earned him a kiss.

“Didn’t I just?” Watson gave a thrust of his hips to remind him who was pinning who here.

“Insufficient data,” Holmes insisted, trying very hard to speak as if his voice wasn’t thick with desire. As if Watson’s hand wasn’t working its way up and down his length. As if he didn’t desperately want to be held down and fucked with all the ferocity of their wrestling match. “It could’ve… ah… Could be an outlier. We really ought to repeat the endeavor. Two or three times. If we’re being scientific about it.”

Watson smiled into the kisses he was busy planting along Holmes’s neck. “Don’t you suppose these clothes are rather inhibitive?”

“Oh yes, terribly.”

“If we’re to have a rematch, we really ought to get rid of them.”

“ _Oh_ _yes_.” Holmes slipped his hands free and started on Watson’s shirt buttons.

“And that exhibit mentioned the use of oil and other lubricants. Do you suppose we should include those?”

Holmes nodded, finishing with the shirt and moving on to the trousers. “Most assuredly.”

“For scientific reasons.”

“For scientific reasons,” Holmes confirmed and set about preparing for their next experiment.


	2. A History of Wrestling - Ancient to Modern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief summation of Holmes and Watson's aforementioned visit to the museum, wherein they baffle a docent and the author plays fast and loose with art history.

The museum staff called them ‘the giggling scourge’. One of the guards swore he had seen them each come in alone, and that alone they both acted like perfect gentlemen: examining things with a curious hum or a raised eyebrow, arms folded behind their backs, politely nodding to him as they passed by. Nobody believed this: together they were a menace. The tall man had some comment for every piece no matter the subject, from a Bernini to an icon of the Holy Virgin, and judging from the mustachioed man’s red-faced snickers, they were not comments fit for public consumption.

The wrestling exhibit was like baiting a bear. A very discourteous, two-bodied bear. When they saw the two men arrive, the docents exchanged a look—mentally drawing lots for who would have the duty of following them about with a stern glare and a well-timed shush. It was Roberts, fresh from university and new to the staff, who drew the short end, which was unfortunate since he was a terrible shush-er and rather loathed to hound people. Awkwardly, he lingered behind the pair as they made their rounds. 

Maderno’s _Hercules and Antaeus_ caught their attention for quite some time. As they stood in silent appreciation, Roberts did not feel the buzz that sparked in the air between them, so he did not appreciate the humor when the tall man finally spoke.

“How historically improbable—Greco-Roman technique strictly prohibits hooking the legs.”

“Yes, I was just thinking that myself,” answered the one with the mustache and they shared a knowing glance.

Then there was the Roman marble from the Medici collection that left them quite stunned. Roberts could understand why, it was a magnificent piece, and one of the finest in the exhibit. The physicality was wonderful: the way the two figures intertwined, one atop the other, the crisp musculature, the liveliness of expression. One almost expected the marble to sweat and grunt.

“I’d be curious to see you attempt that.”

“I’ll bet you would.”

There was a bit of sniggering as they wound their way through the rest of the hall, though not to a level Roberts deemed in need of censure. Indeed, he was nearly considering himself off the hook until they neared the end of room, where some contemporary sketches of athletic displays somehow sparked a debate. Or, it seemed like a debate—there was lots of heated whispering and light chest-prodding. Roberts hoped they weren’t planning to complain about the Eakins piece, like those Temperance women did last weekend.

“Oh you could not, you big liar!” the man with the mustache declared at a wholly inappropriate volume and Roberts could feel the eyes of his colleagues upon him.

“Shall we find out? I’m quite confident I could overtake you. Then perhaps _take_ you.”

“Holmes—“

“E-excuse me, gentlemen,” Roberts began, having failed to muster a good shush, “would you mind—“

“Apologies, we were just leaving,” interrupted the tall man and with that they disappeared through the exit. For the rest of the afternoon, every time Roberts passed through the exhibit he recalled the snippets of conversation, trying to make sense of it. Perhaps they were both amateur athletes. Or maybe historians. In the end, he shrugged his shoulders, utterly at a loss. 


	3. Chapter 3

When she tried the sitting room door, Mrs. Hudson was only mildly surprised to find it locked. With the patience of a saint, she knocked. She did not have to press her ear to the wood to hear slightly panicked whispers and a great deal of shuffling about.

“Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!” she called through the door, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you will be dining here this evening.”

More whispers and a stifled laugh.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, we shall!” It was Mr. Holmes’s voice—he sounded halfway across the room and like he had no intention of opening the door to speak to her.

“Very well.” She studied the watch on her chatelaine. “It’s just after five o’clock—could you last until seven?”

“Fine! That’s fine, Mrs. Hudson, thank you!” Dr. Watson this time, and if they weren’t alone in there, she would have thought he was under duress from the tightness in his voice.

They really ought to be more subtle, she thought while she descended the stairs again. Now, now, she chided herself, it doesn’t pay to think wicked thoughts. There was probably a very reasonable, very innocent explanation.

 

“Must you do that while she’s right there?” Watson asked, glaring down at Holmes, who was busy dragging his tongue along the other man’s length.

Holmes looked back at him with innocent eyes and paused. “Yes, I must.”

“She’ll figure us out if you aren’t more careful.”

“She’s a smart woman, I suspect she knows already. Especially with the way you moan.”

“I?” 

To prove his point, Holmes took him quickly in his mouth, swallowing him until his nose pressed into the soft curls of hair at his base. Watson gripped the back of Holmes’s head and gritted his teeth against the guttural rumble that involuntarily bloomed in the back of his throat. Point proven. Sprawled on his back on the hearthrug, Watson gazed at the ceiling and wondered how anyone could say something this heavenly was immoral.

When Holmes came up for air, Watson’s prick bobbed lazily against his stomach. With his hands spread across the top of Watson’s thighs, he smoothed the last of the Turkish oil over his flanks. Holmes sat back on his heels, drinking in the sight of him: greased, supine, arms behind his head. The casual deviant. The semi-placid life of a city doctor had softened the soldier’s war-hewn muscles a bit, but the framework was still there: the broad chest, the strong arms, the golden ringlets of hair that coursed down his torso, the authoritative jut of hip bone, and the proportions—the proportions! The proportions were what pleased Holmes the most; they were better than Vitruvian. When Holmes called up the entry for ‘Man’ in his mental encyclopedia, this was the image he saw in all its Anglo-Saxon glory. Stiff, ruddy-headed cock included.

Watson lifted his head. “Why’d you stop?”

“Sizing-up my opponent; I was promised a rematch.” 

Starting on their knees, naked, aroused, slippery with massage oil, their second bout felt surprisingly less ridiculous. It began with kisses, lips and tongues doing the fighting. Then a battle of embraces, each trying to topple the other. They groped, tugged, and bit, playfully at first, but the sensuous roughness of earlier quickly returned. Watson grabbed Holmes’s buttocks, nails digging into the flesh as he tried to force him to the ground. Holmes ran a hand down Watson’s stomach, reaching for his erection only to have his wrist caught, his arm twisted back. His face met the rough, threadbare rug, and he felt Watson atop him a moment later. Holmes grinned, recalling the Roman marble; Watson had recreated it beautifully. 

The glide of a soft buttocks against the underside of his cock made Watson rumble once more. He let go of Holmes’s arm to grip his hips, to spread him wide, to guide his prick home. He sank into him with little warning and less preparation. Watson was unsure if the gasp he heard came from his lips or Holmes’s. He thrust his hips in slow, shallow fucks, a firm hand between Holmes’s shoulders, keeping him pinned.

Holmes shifted in the hold, grinding his upper body on the floor. The grain of the rug raked pleasingly against his nipples. “Please.”

The ‘please’ was intoxicating. It was in these moments that Watson saw some criminality in it all. He oughtn’t like to make him beg. He oughtn’t enjoy wrestling him to the ground. He oughtn’t feel a hot pulse between his legs when a rough thrust or a tight grip made Holmes cry out. Yet, he did. Oh God, he did. Thankfully, mercifully, Holmes seemed to enjoy it twofold. Otherwise, he would have never had the courage to ask, “Please what?”

A smirk bloomed on Holmes’s face. This was a favorite game. “Please,” he repeated and moaned as a hand tangled in his hair, pulling sharply, demanding a proper reply. He cobbled together an answer out of barely-articulable desires: more, harder, ’til I’m senseless, ’til you consume me.

His wish was his lover’s command. Watson set upon him with the full force of his frame, driving down until they were both nearly prone on the sitting room floor. He buried his nose in the hair on the back of Holmes’s neck. He sped his hips, he pulled hair, he twisted arms, he nipped and sucked along neck and shoulders, he even pinched, anything to illicit more of those puling sounds from Holmes’s lips that made him shiver. The mixture of pleasure and pain set Holmes’s neurons ablaze. His mind was a muddled stew of sensory perception, unsure what stung and what thrilled. Every inch of him tingled; he felt liquid and sublimely helpless. When his orgasm surged up from his tightening bollocks, he could do little more than gasp as he spent against the rug. 

A few more moments saw them both panting on the floor side-by-side. A tangled mess of limbs coated in sweat, spunk, and slick oil. Holmes turned onto his back and thought of all the new stains the rug was busy acquiring. What excellent memories they would stir on dull, rainy afternoons—

“Sherlock,” said a voice in the tone of someone who has said ‘Holmes’ several times with no success.

He opened one eye and made a curious hum.

“Are you all right?”

“Boneless,” was his cryptic reply. He slithered his way into Watson’s arms, stretching himself lazily against the other man’s chest. “You?”

“Hungry. And rather…"

"Sebaceous?"

"Quite. But otherwise very excellent.”

Holmes nodded thoughtfully and began to slowly rouse himself. “I believe I have a solution to both those concerns. Provided I first remember how to stand up.”

Watson doubted that would happen. They would never get off the rug. Holmes would have to learn to consult from right here. They recovered their breath draped over one another, laughing as they imagined a new life lived entirely from the sitting room floor.


	4. Chapter 4

One of the nicest things about cooking a roast is that it gives one ample time for contemplation. One needn’t worry about feeling idle—a proper roast needs a bit of minding—but there are a few hours to give oneself over to one’s thoughts without the fear of something boiling over or burning. It was in these mid-roast moments that Mrs. Hudson felt she did her best reflecting. She had already plotted out the meals and errands for the coming week, considered again with a tearful sigh the sad news Mrs. Fielding told her about Mrs. Abbott’s niece, and half-composed a mental letter to her sister, when the creaking of floorboards overhead settled into such a lewd rhythm it brought a blush to her cheek just to hear it. Hardly a reasonable, innocent explanation for that. She glanced over to Sarah at the table and caught her frowning at the ceiling, no doubt trying to make sense of the obscene thumps from upstairs.

“How are the potatoes coming along?”

“Almost finished,” answered Sarah, turning her attentions back to the potatoes and dutifully peeling the last of them. “Shall I dice them afterwards?”

“Just quarters will do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave a triumphant nod and stooped to check on the roast. It was one thing if she had her suspicions, it was quite another if the rest of the household did as well. She oughtn’t feel so motherly towards them—they were grown men after all—but there was something about them that reminded her of the orphaned kittens she used to bring home as a girl. Even if the kittens were a bit mangey and gave the whole family ring-worm, they were always so sweet-tempered, never once bit or scratched. Perhaps it was not a comparison worthy of her illustrious tenants, but no matter their misdeeds, imagined or otherwise, both Mr. Holmes and the doctor were kind, honorable men, worthy of her protection and even her mothering.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” Sarah suddenly shot out of her chair, scattering potato peels all over the table and floor.

Mrs. Hudson turned, lightly startled, and found a rare sight, indeed: Mr. Holmes in dressing gown and slippers in the kitchen doorway. Hair half-tamed, eyes bright, face flushed—she was no great detective, but Mrs. Hudson recognized the countenance instantly. He looked, as her late husband, bless him, would have said: Freshly fucked. (He was a good man, God rest him, but he could talk quite the blazes sometimes.)

Holmes waved a magnanimous hand to Sarah, who gave a faint curtsy before scrambling after the potato peels. With a self-conscious pat to his hair, he offered his best, most sheepish expression.

“I am sorry to intrude, Mrs. Hudson, but may I trouble you for some hot water and something to eat.”

She glanced at the clock, then back to his disheveled appearance with narrowing eyes. “It’s just after six; I’m afraid supper won’t be ready for another hour.”

“Anything will do to tide us over. I’m famished.”

_Mr. Holmes famished?_ Mrs. Hudson mused, _Freshly fucked, indeed, Bob._ She sighed the world-weary sigh of the slightly inconvenienced and set to it. She sacrificed some of the water boiling for the potatoes into a pitcher, cobbled together some cheese sandwiches, and poured two glasses of milk. She made a comment to the effect of ‘if they wished to roughhouse like children, they could eat like them,’ and resolutely was _not_ thinking about the very adult activities that had just taken place on her sitting room rug. She pressed the tray into his waiting hands with some light admonishment and a reminder that they have got a bell, you know, and he can always just ring.

“Mrs. Hudson, you’re a saint,” was his only response before he took to the stairs again.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes?” She called after him and he turned, mouth full of sandwich. “May I ask who won?”

Holmes chewed with a thoughtful frown that said he had no idea to what she could possibly be referring.

“Your wager? With the doctor? How did it end up?”

He made a noise of remembering and finished his mouthful. “Alas, it was a draw.”

“I always thought it best when it works out that way,” Mrs. Hudson remarked knowingly, with an audacious little smile that said she was young once and knew what it was to make love in the afternoon. There was a look, a brief but unmistakable look of understanding between them. Mrs. Hudson no longer had to suspect nor Holmes to doubt her loyalty. Holmes’s head dipped in a gracious nod, and Mrs. Hudson wondered if this was how it felt to be a brother in arms.

The tray was more difficult to carry with slippery hands than Holmes anticipated. The sitting room door seemed an impenetrable obstacle. The knob, a trap that would end in tumbled-over sandwiches and spilt milk. He knocked with his elbow and squeezed through the small opening that Watson—still nude and shielding himself with the door—allowed him.

“Behold!” Holmes declared, setting the tray on the table and kicking off his slippers. “Nourishment and hot water. All the modern luxuries.”

“Truly, I am a fortunate man.” In spite of his grumbling stomach, Watson wrapped his arms around Holmes from behind and kissed his neck. He tasted salty and smelt of deviance. Deft hands untied Holmes’s dressing gown and began to remove the hastily reapplied clothes. 

“Your poor shirt,” he reflected, sliding it off Holmes’s shoulders and letting it join the dressing gown in a pool on the floor. “I’m afraid the oil left spots.”

“Sacrifices must be made.” In the name of what, he did not say. Holmes turned about to kiss him before fetching the wash bowl from his room. It was no bath, to be sure, but a hot, damp cloth did restore a bit of a feeling of humanity. It was the unfortunate side effect of, in Holmes’s opinion, really excellent sexual exploits that afterwards one always felt a bit buffoonish writhing about in all the bodily fluids, which had seemed so immediately arousing only moments ago. Watson was mostly just pleased he might save his shirt some grease spots, and thus, on his laundry bill.

“Aren’t you going to eat something?” Watson asked, sandwich in hand, installing himself at the table. Milk and cheese sandwiches—Mrs. Hudson was an artist of silent commentary.

“Ate mine on the stairs. Nearly tripped. Cheers.” Their milk glasses tapped.

By seven o'clock they had managed to remake themselves in the forms of respectable gentlemen: washed, redressed, and no longer smirking and winking at one another at every opportunity. Furniture was restored to its proper place. The new stains on the rug, slowly drying themselves permanent, were obfuscated in the lamplight of early evening. Supper appeared like clockwork. The roast was excellent. Mrs. Hudson had truly outdone herself again, and Watson said as much. She had been worried the garlic would be too overwhelming, but it turned out just right, if she said so herself. Holmes ate heartily and did not mention to Watson the moment he and their housekeeper had shared earlier that day. Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at him, all the same.

“And thank you again for the sandwiches and hot water. Though, I’m afraid I’ll need a good soak tomorrow—my back is so stiff, I must have strained something when I trounced this one earlier,” boasted Watson, not realizing that everyone in the room was now privy to his euphemisms. 

Mrs. Hudson looked between the two of them and was decidedly not going to picture what that meant. The poor doctor, of course a bath would be no trouble to make ready tomorrow. “Only, Mr. Holmes told me your contest was a draw.” 

Mr. Holmes starred fixedly at his vegetables.

Watson guffawed at that. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Now, now, old boy, I think it’s only fair to say that in this contest, I came out _on_ _top_.”

“Only because I let you.” Holmes took a much needed sip of wine.

“ _Let me?_ Oh, come now, I pinned you twice. I’d do it again in an instant if my back wasn’t smarting.” To hear him, one would think a wrestling match was all it had been. Even glancing at Holmes’s stone-faced calm, one had to be an expert to spot the flush on his ears, the faint tremor in the hard line of his lips, the slightly unsteady hand that held the wineglass.

“Then let us hope for a quick recovery from your injuries, my dear Watson, so that I may prove you very, deliciously wrong.”

“I don’t see any reason for it, unless you enjoy losing.”

Across the table, the two men gazed at one another as they did nearly a hundred times a day. There was an almost electric hum that developed between them, the same one the docent at the museum had failed to notice. Mrs. Hudson wondered how many years she had been deaf to it.

“I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. Will you be needing anything else tonight?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that will be all.” The smile Holmes offered her was conciliatory, apologetic, and a great deal more genuine than most smiles she got from him. “Good night.”

“Yes, good night, Mrs. Hudson. And thank you.”

With a gracious nod and a good night to them both, Mrs. Hudson made her retreat. She paused in the doorway, debating. She shouldn’t. How embarrassing it would be for them. She shouldn’t, but it would be harmless revenge for all the burns and stains and other calamities that her home had suffered at their hands.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes?” The words were out of her lips before she had made up her mind. “If I may be so bold, you oughtn’t let the doctor share your bed tonight—that mattress is far too firm for someone with a strained back.” 

With that, she shut the door firmly behind herself as the sound of stunned, nervous laughter bubbled up from within the sitting room. Exposure, takedown, point to Mrs. Hudson. There went the match. Perhaps Holmes had been right about strength, weight, and small trees with deep roots. Besides that, Holmes’s bed always did give Watson a stiff neck.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Overheard at the Yard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9775175) by [okapi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi)




End file.
